Draco Malfoy Writes a Bestseller
by GrannyWeatherwax23
Summary: Draco visits his therapist after a harrowing experience with all seven Potter books. Muchos whining ensues before a Plan is made. Crackfic I wrote after a little too much alone time with my Psych textbook.


Draco Malfoy Writes a Bestseller

Draco Malfoy is spitting mad. And I mean that literally. A fine spray misted my face a second ago, which wasn't very pleasant, really.

I reach for the red silk handkerchief in my breast pocket, and surreptitiously wipe flecks of spit off my face. No, not pleasant at all.

He doesn't notice my discomfort, being too busy ranting and yelling. He's very pink, I notice distractedly, shifting a bit to avoid the spit-missiles. The contrast of his pale blond- almost white, really- hair and the extreme pink of his face is startling. His grey eyes have gone dark with rage, dilated- his pupils have bloomed black, leaving only a very thin ring of grey licking at the edges.

If he has an aneurism in my office, I'll definitely be sending him the cleaning bills. I sigh and take a quick peek at the fine, mahogany clock behind him. He's been here an hour now, and I'm starting to feel a tension headache pounding in the darkness behind my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger, smiling encouragingly at him all the while. After all, I _am _billing him by the hour. My mind wanders for a minute, and I picture Mary-Jane. Big, beautiful Mary-Jane: all white and wooden and lovely. I look fondly at the picture hanging directly behind Malfoy's head: nothing but me and Mary Jane and the twisting aquamarine waters of the ocean. Good times. I can almost feel the spray of salt-water in my face again, cool and soothing.

Oh. That was just Malfoy spitting again.

"Dr. Avery, I'm feeling very distraught here! YOU ARE LOOKING AT YOUR BOAT! What am I even paying you for?"

I jerk out of my trance hurriedly, and paste my best caring-and-consoling expression on my face. Malfoy's never ending list of neuroses did pay for Mary Jane, after all. Get your head back in the game, Avery! And stop talking to yourself!

I shake my head again. My own list of neuroses has been growing at a rather alarming rate lately. But that's a problem that will keep. Mary needs some repairs, and sadly Malfoy's mostly fabricated mental trauma is the best source of Galleons _for_ those repairs.

"Now, now Draco. I assure you, I am paying you and your pressing troubles the utmost attention. But perhaps you would like to paraphrase _briefly_ how you feel and the events that led you to have those feelings? Just as a psychological exercise, you understand." I say, glazing each syllable with sugar.

Malfoy relaxes a bit, lowering his hackles. Good thing he's such an attention seeking twit- else I'd _never_ get away with anything.

"Of course, Dr. Avery." he says graciously, the pink flush on his face fading slightly. I relax too, and prepare myself for the inevitable boredom and the pressing urge to break something: both reactions are typical side effects of listening to Draco Malfoy talk about himself. Or talk at all, really.

"Well, as you know my family has extensive political contacts both in our world as well as the Muggle one." His nose automatically wrinkles as he says the word Muggle, I note interestedly. Perhaps I should write a paper on it: _Primitively Pavlovian Purebloods_. Snappy title, if I do say so myself. I force myself to pay attention again: Mary Jane's new deck is a powerful motivator.

"A few weeks ago, I visited Muggle London on business, and as I was passing by a book store, I saw the most horrendous sight imaginable. It was a book, Dr. Avery, and even though it was in the Children's section it may as well have been a Satanic Bible. It was red and gold, a colour combination that is obviously quite traumatic to me- I was bullied at school, you see- but that wasn't why I almost collapsed. It was the TITLE, Dr. Avery. Do you know what that- that book of the damned was _called_? HARRY POTTER AND THE GOBLET OF FIRE. HARRY POTTER, Dr. Avery. OF course, my first thought was that it must be some crazy, terrible co-incidence, Merlin knows that tosser's name is as common as dirt, but I had to be sure. I bought the book, and six others from the same series, and read them all in four days, with- let me tell you Dr. Avery- MOUNTING horror. MOUNTING. It mounted with every SYLLABLE. I didn't attend a single meeting, not ONE! Dr. Avery, it was the vilest blasphemy I have ever seen. That myopic attention seeking git- he's found some screaming Muggle fangirl- I forget her name… Jojo? Josephine? Anyway, he's gotten this Josie woman to write the worst kind of philandering hagiography imaginable. It's terrible, Dr. Avery, I swooned right there! In a manly fashion, of course. But I digress. The worst part was- was the sixth book, "

Malfoy chokes and stops, for once (thank you, Lord) lost for words. And then he finds them again. Lots of them, and each one crazier than its predecessor. I think I've done bad things in my previous life. Mary- Jane, Mary- Jane… I chant in my head.

"Draco," I say faintly- the pounding behind my eyes going up a notch. "Draco, you _must_ know- there were lots of articles in the Daily Prophet about the books years ago… and Mr. Potter was very against them as far as I can tell. Only Miss. Granger-Weasley's insistence that future generations of wizards and Muggles alike should know what happened so that history would never repeat itself convinced Mr. Potter to agree. Draco, really-"

But of course he didn't hear a word. Draco in mid rant is like a five year old cat burglar in Honeydukes. Unstoppable.

"HE SAID I CRIED TO A GHOST IN A GIRL'S BATHROOM!" he shouts, his face passing pink, red and purple in rapid succession to come out somewhere on the other side of the spectrum. I watch, horribly fascinated as he rants on and on, his face flushed and glowing with sweat and rage.

"I WASN'T CRYING! MY EYES WERE WATERING FROM ALL THE FUMES!"

"There were fumes in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Well of course! They were… _spectral _fumes. Yes. Myrtle had a- a gas problem. She was windy. Practically a hurricane. She could've floated a hot air balloon! Spectrally, of course." He says hurriedly.

"And I have extremely delicate eyes! The… corneas, all that spectral gas and fumes, my corneas were almost torn apart." He says with a sniff, obviously warming to his subject.

"Of course they were, Draco. I'm sure the fumes must be distressing to talk about- why don't you continue? Remember: Paraphrasing is a _good_ thing." At this point, my voice could induce diabetes.

"Right, yeah… Anyway, Dr. Avery I feel I have been maliciously slandered. I've been victimized! Potter obviously has a few insecurity issues about my stunningly beautiful and perfect self and he's acting them out by allowing these filthy self- aggrandizing lies to be mass produced! D'you know, I asked a Muggle at the store whether she'd read that tripe and she said they were her favorite books! She said she wanted to have Potter's babies! POTTER'S BABIES! WHY WOULD ANY SANE WOMAN WANT TO INFLICT THAT HAIR ON AN INNOCENT FOETUS DR. AVERY? WHY? I really don't understand it. I'm very distressed that these flagrant lies are being forced on an unknowing public- I'm described as pointy! I AM NOT POINTY!

He's panting slightly as he collapses onto the leather couch behind him and stretches out, his whole attitude tragic. And then he brings his extremely sharp and definitely pointed elbow up to his face and proceeds to tuck his nose- the one he could use as a needle- into it. The only thing I can see of his face is his chin- yeah, the one he could use as an arrowhead. Should he be so inclined, of course.

"Of course not! Your face bears the wonderfully constructed and _highly _aristocratic bone- structure of both the Malfoy's _and _the Black's. Not pointy at all." I say quickly.

Maybe it was all that highly aristocratic inbreeding that got you a face like the sharp end of a spear.

Am I putting my immortal soul at risk with regular displays of shameless sycophancy? I'm not even psychoanalyzing him anymore- I've realized that some problems can never, ever be fixed. No, I'm just pandering. Mary Jane, Mary Jane… I chant desperately.

Malfoy, if my ostentatious sincerity is making him suspicious at all, doesn't show it. Instead, he preens like a crazy albino cat. I quite expect him to start licking himself any minute now.

"Yes of course, Dr. Avery- that's exactly right. Don't you worry; we Malfoy's have never let maliciously attention seeking Scarred Wonders get the best of us! I have a Plan!"

Oh dear. I _heard_ that capital 'P'. That can't be good.

"Yes Draco?" I ask encouragingly but my voice wobbles a little.

"I shall write it all… as it _really _happened!" he says triumphantly, a manic little grin playing at the edges of his thin lips. Oh dear Merlin, his eyes are scaring me. They're glittering like the sun on a beetle's back, and I can see a large helping of insanity with a side order of unholy glee reflected in those dilated grey depths. I am a trained professional! I have a PhD in psychological healing! I must not whimper!

"Do you think I _absolutely_ need to include the bit where Potter defeated the Dark Lord?" he asks vaguely.

Pain blooms bright and sharp in the dark recess behind my eyes, painting everything crimson. Through the daze, a single thought strikes me with extreme clarity: sailing is an unnecessary, dangerous and expensive hobby. How much would Mary Jane sell for, I wonder? Hopefully enough for a long, _long_ vacation on an immoral island paradise.

Grass skirted natives shaking sinuous golden brown hips, highly alcoholic coconut drinks and absolutely _no_ Draco Malfoy. Nirvana, I'm on my way.

A/N: I've been doing Psych homework for so very long, I felt like taking a break and writing some truly random crackfic. I hope you like it! Read and review, please.


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